


Those Three Words

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras can't understand why Grantaire doesn't want him to say, 'I love you', when Grantaire tells him those three words all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted cute barricade boyfriends being stupidly cute. Et voilà.
> 
> Slight warnings for distorted self-image/implied depression.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: if you recognize it, I don't own it.

Grantaire told Enjolras, “I love you” on their first date.

To be more specific, he told Enjolras he loved him about five minutes into their first date. While they were still in the car on the way to the restaurant.

The words just fell out of his mouth as if they were the most natural thing in the world (which, when you’ve been thinking them over and over on repeat in your head for the past several years, they kind of were), and as soon as they were out, Grantaire clapped a hand over his mouth. “Shit,” he said, looking panicked. “I didn’t…I mean, I did mean it. But. I. Um. I didn’t mean to say it?”

Enjolras smiled at him, a patient sort of smile, the kind Grantaire still wasn’t entirely used to seeing directed at him. “It’s ok,” he told him, though he added quickly, “I hope you don’t expect me to say it back right now.”

If possible, Grantaire looked even more panicked. “Fuck no,” he croaked, eyes wide. “You saying that might actually cause me to have a heart attack. Let’s just…let’s forget the whole thing, ok?”

Though Enjolras laughed, nodded, and agreed, he couldn’t get the notion of Grantaire panicking over the mere thought of Enjolras telling him he loved him out of his mind. He didn’t dwell on it constantly; it was more like a niggling itch that made itself known more at some times versus others.

When at a rally for Les Amis, for instance, the itch was hidden, buried behind anger and passion and the blaze of change that could not be extinguished no matter how hard they tried. When studying and doing work, it was smothered by the sheer quantity of other things Enjolras needed to be constantly paying attention to.

But when he and Grantaire were alone, when Grantaire was looking at him with those wide eyes, his crooked smile somehow shy and sweet in a way Enjolras had never before known, or when he would lean in and kiss Grantaire, drinking each other in as if it was the first time every time, then the itch did not stay so hidden. It crept to the forefront of his mind, reminding him as always that Grantaire had not wanted Enjolras to say those three words.

Those three words that Grantaire, emboldened, perhaps, by his accidental slip, told Enjolras all the time, ranging from casually dropping it into the conversation, normally punctuated by a soft kiss, or almost screamed in ecstasy during sex, or sometimes whispered, fervently, when he wasn’t even sure Enjolras was listening.

Those three words that whenever Enjolras got half a mind to return them, Grantaire seemed to pale at the thought and quickly changed the subject to something different.

Those three words that Enjolras was beginning to suspect were the only words that accurately summed up what he was feeling.

He went to talk to Combeferre about it, relying on his oldest friend to tell him the truth when no other would. After he had told the whole story, he asked quietly, “Why doesn’t he want me to tell him that I love him? Because I think I do, and I want to tell him that, but…”

“It’s not you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Combeferre told him, almost sharply. “It’s got nothing to do with you. At least, for the most part.”

Sighing, Enjolras leaned forward, expression earnest. “Then why would he be so adverse to hearing me say it? I mean, if Grantaire can acknowledge that he loves me, why can’t I tell him the same thing?”

Now Combeferre leaned forward as well, his expression serious as he looked at Enjolras. “Ah. Now. That’s a different matter. There’s a very big difference between accepting that you love someone and accepting that someone loves you. It’s easy, almost, to realize that you’re in love. You may deny it at first, certainly, rage against it - I do recall you doing something similar when you first realized you had feelings for Grantaire - try to hide it, but eventually you have to accept it, one way or the other. But accepting someone loves you…”

He trailed off, looking contemplative, and Enjolras bit back his impatience. Finally, Combeferre sighed and looked down. “Accepting someone loves you means that you have to accept that you’re capable and worthy of being loved in the first place. For most of us, that’s not…I wouldn’t say it’s not a problem, necessarily, but really, it isn’t. We grow up with parents and friends saying they love us and we accept, on some level, that we are worthy of love. But Grantaire…”

Again, Combeferre bit off his words, but this time Enjolras did not feel impatient. This time, Enjolras suspected that he did not want to hear what Combeferre was about to tell him. “You know as much of Grantaire’s history as I do. Perhaps more. And my guess - and it is only a guess, so do keep that in mind - my guess is that Grantaire finds it hard to believe that anyone could love him. But when you add to that the fact that it’s you, and you’re, well,  _you_ —” Enjolras rolled his eyes, but sadly knew exactly what Combeferre was referring to, thinking uncomfortably of the worshipful look Grantaire sometimes gave him “—not to mention the fact that you know all of Grantaire’s worst secrets, I imagine it’s even harder than normal for him to even begin to accept that you may love him. Certainly in the same way that he loves you.”

“Is this one of those, ‘no one will love you until you love yourself’ things?” Enjolras asked stiffly after a long moment of processing what Combeferre had just told him.

Combeferre almost laughed, though there was no humor in his voice when he answered, “No! God, no. Definitely not. It’s more like…accepting that you’re worthy of love even if you don’t love yourself. Which can be a complicated thing, especially for someone with a past like Grantaire’s.”

Enjolras nodded, slowly, his mind whirring with a thousand different thoughts. “So…what am I supposed to do? How can I help him accept it?”

“Time,” Combeferre said, a half-smile stretching across his face as he slipped into a sarcastic tone. “Which I know you’re very good at, being the epitome of patience.”

Though Enjolras made a face, he couldn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed and asked, “How did you get so good at knowing all of this?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “You might remember one of my minors was psychology. Besides which, maybe if you read something other than political analysis, you would pick up on the way the world works sometimes.”

“I read other things!” Enjolras protested, but Combeferre just shook his head, laughing slightly.

“Courfeyrac tricking you into reading half of  _Fifty Shades of Grey_  does not count.”

Enjolras spluttered with indignation, but it was mild, his mind already turned to the far more important manner at hand: how he was going to convince Grantaire that he did, in fact, love him, that Grantaire was worthy of his love.

He couldn’t just tell him, that much was plain. But if he couldn’t tell him, that really only meant one option: he would have to show him.

Grantaire may not believe the words. But Enjolras would be damned if Grantaire was somehow able to deny the evidence.

So he started to show Grantaire how much he loved him, how much he felt for him, how much he appreciated him. He didn’t do grand gestures, knowing those would ring false. He focused instead on the small, on the everyday.

‘I love you’ was implied in the whipped cream that Enjolras piled high on the hot chocolate he made for Grantaire one blustery evening, as much as it was in the way Enjolras laughed and leaned in and kissed that whipped cream off of Grantaire’s upper lip not even five minutes later.

He wrote ‘I love you’ between the lines of the letters that he left for Grantaire, the post-it notes he scrawled and put on the fridge, the hasty notes scribbled on the whiteboard next to their grocery list. With every word he tried to remind Grantaire - you’re valued. You’re appreciated. You’re _loved_.

On mornings when Enjolras turned his alarm clock off and stayed wrapped up in Grantaire’s arms, it was in the whisper of the sheets and the rustle of the curtains, in lips and tongues tracing familiar paths on each body, in hands clasped and lazy motions.

Those three words were in every hug, were in every embrace, were in every kiss.

Enjolras branched out from just their home, taking Grantaire’s hand in public, touching him gently on the shoulder or the arm when he brushed past him in the Musain. He would pull Grantaire onto his lap and nuzzle against his neck, not caring if their friends saw and mocked (they saw; they didn’t mock. They had all waited far too long for this to ruin it now).

They still argued - of course they still argued; their entire relationship was  _founded_  on arguing - but it was different now. Where before Enjolras might have cut Grantaire off, snapped at him, now he let him talk. He let him have his say, appraising every word carefully (to remind him that Enjolras thought his voice had value, that his voice deserved to be heard). And as Grantaire realized Enjolras was not going to cut him down, his confidence grew, and his barbed comments turned into more carefully constructed arguments (still designed, as always, to poking not so much holes as gaping chasms in the tenets of Enjolras’s speeches, but neither would have had it any other way).

And with every kiss, every touch, every moment that said ‘I love you’ without ever the words being spoken, Grantaire smiled a little truer, not turning away the way he used to when Enjolras praised him, not rolling his eyes when Enjolras said something mushy. He initiated more touches on his own now, pulling Enjolras into kisses whenever he felt like it, sometimes just grabbing him and dancing with him in the living room to whatever song he could hum under his breath until they collapsed together in a fit of laughter on the couch.

Those three words didn’t need to be spoken in moments like these; they were imbued in the very air they breathed.

Enjolras saturated their life together with love, to the point where, several months later, as they were both almost dozing off after making love in the afternoon, when he whispered for the first time, “I love you,” in Grantaire’s ear, Grantaire barely even stiffened, didn’t even pull away.

Instead, he just rolled over to face Enjolras, to press a gentle kiss to Enjolras’s lips, and to whisper back, “Took you long enough to say it.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're at all interested in just how Courfeyrac managed to trick Enjolras into reading half of Fifty Shades of Grey, you can find that [here](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/64416305483/dude-now-im-curious-about-how-courf-tricked-e-in-to).


End file.
